Books: Heart Histories and Life Pictures

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Heart Histories and Life Pictures

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Ellen could not reply; her heart was too full. But she leaned her
head upon her sister's shoulder, and, for the first time since she
had heard the sad news of the morning, burst into tears. Jane was
surprised, and filled with anxious concern. She waited until this
ebullition of feeling in some degree abated, and then said, in a
tone still more tender than that in which she had first spoken,--

"Ellen, dear sister! tell me what has happened?"

"I am foolish, sister," at length, said Ellen, looking up, and
endeavoring to dry her tears. "But I cannot help it. Henry was
discharged from the shop this morning; and now, what are we to do?
We have nothing ahead, and I am afraid he will not be able to get
anything to do here, or within many miles of the village."

"That is bad, Ellen," replied Jane, while a shadow fell upon her
face, but a few moments before so glowing and happy. And that was
nearly all she could say; for she did not wish to offer false
consolation, and she could think of no genuine words of comfort.
After a while, each grew more composed and less reserved; and then
the whole matter was talked over, and all that Jane could say, that
seemed likely to soothe and give hope to Ellen's mind, was said with
earnestness and affection.

"What have you there?" at length asked Ellen, glancing towards the
chair upon which Jane had laid her bundle.

Jane paused a moment, as if in self-communion, and then said--

"Only a pair of blankets, and a couple of calico dresses that I have
been out buying."

"Let me look at them," said Ellen, in as cheerful a voice as she
could assume.

A large heavy pair of blankets, for which Jane had paid five
dollars, were now unrolled, and a couple of handsome chintz dresses,
of dark rich colors, suitable for the winter season, displayed. It
was with difficulty that Ellen could restrain a sigh, as she looked
at these comfortable things, and thought of how much she needed, and
of how little she had to hope for. Jane felt that such thoughts must
pass through her sister's mind, and she also felt much pained that
she had undesignedly thus added, by contrast, to Ellen's unhappy
feelings. When she returned home, she put away her new dresses and
her blankets. She had no heart to look at them, no heart to enjoy
her own good things, while the sister she so much loved was denied
like present comforts, and, worse than all, weighed down with a
heart-sickening dread of the future.

We will not linger to contrast, in a series of domestic pictures,
the effects of industry and idleness on the two married sisters and
their families,--effects, the causes of which, neither aided
materially in producing. Such contrasts, though useful, cannot but
be painful to the mind, and we would, a thousand times, rather give
pleasure than pain. But one more striking contrast we will give, as
requisite to show the tendency of good or bad principles, united
with good or bad habits.

Unable to get any employment in the village, Thorne, hearing that
steady work could be obtained in Charleston, South Carolina, sold
off a portion of his scanty effects, by which he received money
enough to remove there with his wife and child. Thus were the
sisters separated; and in that separation, gradually estranged from
the tender and lively affection that presence and constant
intercourse had kept burning with undiminished brightness. Each
became more and more absorbed, every day, in increasing cares and
duties; yet to one those cares and duties were painful, and to the
other full of delight.

Ten years from the day on which they parted in tears, Ellen sat,
near the close of day, in a meanly furnished room, in one of the
southern cities, watching, with a troubled countenance, the restless
slumber of her husband. Her face was very thin and pale, and it had
a fixed and strongly marked expression of suffering. Two children, a
boy and a girl, the one about six, and the other a little over ten
years of age, were seated listlessly on the floor, which was
uncarpeted. They seemed to have no heart to play. Even the
elasticity of childhood had departed from them. From the appearance
of Thorne, it was plain that he was very sick; and from all the
indications the room in which he lay, afforded, it was plain that
want and suffering were its inmates. The habit of idleness he had
suffered to creep at a slow but steady pace upon him. Idleness
brought intemperance, and intemperance, reacting upon idleness,
completed his ruin, and reduced his family to poverty in its most
appalling form. Now he was sick with a southern fever, and his
miserable dwelling afforded him no cordial, nor his wife and
children the healthy food that nature required.

"Mother!" said the little boy, getting up from the floor, where he
had been sitting for half an hour, as still as if he were sleeping,
and coming to Ellen's side, he looked up earnestly and imploringly
in her face.

"What, my child?" the mother said, stooping down and kissing his
forehead, while she parted with her fingers the golden hair that
fell in tangled masses over it.

"Can't I have a piece of bread, mother?"

Ellen did not reply, but rose slowly and went to the closet, from
which she took part of a loaf, and cutting a slice from it, handed
it to her hungry boy. It was her last loaf, and all their money was
gone. The little fellow took it, and breaking a piece off for his
sister, gave it to her; the two children then sat down side by side,
and ate in silence the morsel that was sweet to them.

With an instinctive feeling, that from nowhere but above could she
look for aid and comfort, did Ellen lift her heart, and pray that
she might not be forsaken in her extremity. And then she thought of
her sister Jane, from whom she had not heard for a long, long time,
and her heart yearned towards her with an eager and yearning desire
to see her face once more.

And now let us look in upon Jane and her family. Her husband, by
saving where Thorne spent in foolish trifles, and working when
Thorne was idle, gradually laid by enough to purchase a little farm,
upon which he had removed, and there industry and frugality brought
its sure rewards. They had three children: little Ellen had grown to
a lively, rosy-cheeked, merry-faced girl of eleven years; and
George, who had followed Ellen, was in his seventh year, and after
him came the baby, now just completing the twelfth month of its
innocent, happy life. It was in the season when the farmers' toil is
rewarded, and William Moreland was among those whose labor had met
an ample return.

How different was the scene, in his well established cottage, full
to the brim of plenty and comfort, to that which was passing at the
same hour of the day, a few weeks before, in the sad abode of Ellen,
herself its saddest inmate.

The table was spread for the evening meal, always eaten before the
sun hid his bright face, and George and Ellen, although the supper
was not yet brought in, had taken their places; and Moreland, too,
had drawn up with the baby on his knee, which he was amusing with an
apple from a well filled basket, the product of his own orchard.

A hesitating rap drew the attention of the tidy maiden who assisted
Mrs. Moreland in her duties.

"It is the poor old blind man," she said, in a tone of compassion,
as she opened the door.

"Here is a shilling for him, Sally," said Moreland, handing her a
piece of money. "The Lord has blessed us with plenty, and something
to spare for his needy children."

The liberal meal upon the table, the mother sat down with the rest,
and as she looked around upon each happy face, her heart blessed the
hour that she had given her hand to William Moreland. Just as the
meal was finished, a neighbor stopped at the door and said:

"Here's a letter for Mrs. Moreland; I saw it in the post-office, and
brought it over for her, as I was coming this way."

"Come in, come in," said Moreland, with a hearty welcome in his
voice.

"No, I thank you, I can't stop now. Good evening," replied the
neighbor.

"Good evening," responded Moreland, turning from the door, and
handing the letter to Jane.

"It must be from Ellen," Mrs. Moreland remarked, as she broke the
seal. "It is a long time since we heard from then; I wonder how they
are doing."

She soon knew; for on opening the letter she read thus:--

SAVANNAH, September, 18--.

MY DEAR SISTER JANE:--Henry has just died. I am left here without a
dollar, and know not where to get bread for myself and two children.
I dare not tell you all I have suffered since I parted from you.
I----

My heart is too full; I cannot write. Heaven only knows what I shall
do! Forgive me, sister, for troubling you; I have not done so
before, because I did not wish to give you pain, and I only do so
now, from an impulse that I cannot resist.

ELLEN.

Jane handed the letter to her husband, and sat down in a chair, her
senses bewildered, and her heart sick.

"We have enough for Ellen, and her children, too, Jane," said
Moreland, folding the letter after he had read it. "We must send for
them at once. Poor Ellen! I fear she has suffered much."

"You are good, kind and noble-hearted, William!" exclaimed Jane,
bursting into tears.

"I don't know that I am any better than anybody else, Jane. But I
can't bear to see others suffering, and never will, if I can afford
relief. And surely, if industry brought no other reward, the power
it gives us to benefit and relieve others, is enough to make us ever
active."

In one month from the time Ellen's letter was received, she, with
her children, were inmates of Moreland's cottage. Gradually the
light returned to her eye, and something of the former glow of
health and contentment to her cheek. Her children in a few weeks,
were as gay and happy as any. The delight that glowed in the heart
of William Moreland, as he saw this pleasing change, was a double
reward for the little he had sacrificed in making them happy. Nor
did Ellen fall, with her children, an entire burden upon her sister
and her husband;--her activity and willingness found enough to do
that needed doing. Jane often used to say to her husband--

"I don't know which is the gainer over the other, I or Ellen; for I
am sure I can't see how we could do without her."

GOOD-HEARTED PEOPLE.

THERE are two classes in the world: one acts from impulse, and the
other from reason; one consults the heart, and the other the head.
Persons belonging to the former class are very much liked by the
majority of those who come in contact with them: while those of the
latter class make many enemies in their course through life. Still,
the world owes as much to the latter as to the former--perhaps a
great deal more.

Mr. Archibald May belonged to the former class; he was known as a
good-hearted man. He uttered the word "no" with great difficulty;
and was never known to have deliberately said that to another which
he knew would hurt his feelings. If any one about him acted wrong,
he could not find it in his heart to wound him by calling his
attention to the fact. On one occasion, a clerk was detected in
purloining money; but it was all hushed up, and when Mr. May
dismissed him, he gave him a certificate of good character.

"How could you do so?" asked a neighbor, to whom he mentioned the
fact.

"How could I help doing it? The young man had a chance of getting a
good place. It would have been cruel in me to have refused to aid
him. A character was required, and I could do no less than give it.
Poor, silly fellow! I am sure I wish him well. I always liked him."

"Suppose he robs his present employer?"

"He won't do that, I'm certain. He is too much ashamed of his
conduct while in my store. It is a lesson to him. And, at any rate,
I do not think a man should be hunted down for a single fault."

"No: of course not. But, when you endorse a man's character, you
lead others to place confidence in him; a confidence that may be
betrayed under very aggravated circumstances."

"Better that many suffer, than that one innocent man should be
condemned and cast off."

"But there is no question about guilt or innocence. It was fully
proved that this young man robbed you."

"Suppose it was. No doubt the temptation was very strong. I don't
believe he will ever be guilty of such a thing again."

"You have the best evidence in the world that he will, in the fact
that he has taken your money."

"O no, not at all. It doesn't follow, by any means, that a fault
like this will be repeated. He was terribly mortified about it. That
has cured him, I am certain."

"I wouldn't trust to it."

"You are too uncharitable," replied Mr. May. "For my part, I always
look upon the best side of a man's character. There is good in every
one. Some have their weaknesses--some are even led astray at times;
but none are altogether bad. If a man falls, help him up, and start
him once more fair in the world--who can say that he will again
trip? Not I. The fact is, we are too hard with each other. If you
brand your fellow with infamy for one little act of indiscretion,
or, say crime, what hope is there for him."

"You go rather too far, Mr. May," the neighbor said, "in your
condemnation of the world. No doubt there are many who are really
uncharitable in their denunciations of their fellow man for a single
fault. But, on the other side, I am inclined to think, that there
are just as many who are equally uncharitable, in loosely passing
by, out of spurious kindness, what should mark a man with just
suspicion, and cause a withholding of confidence. Look at the case
now before us. You feel unwilling to keep a young man about you,
because he has betrayed your trust, and yet, out of kind feelings,
you give him a good character, and enable him to get a situation
where he may seriously wrong an unsuspecting man."

"But I am sure he will not do so."

"But what is your guarantee?"

"The impression that my act has evidently made upon him. If I had,
besides hushing up the whole matter, kept him still in my store, he
might again have been tempted. But the comparatively light
punishment of dismissing him with a good character, will prove a
salutary check upon him."

"Don't you believe it."

"I will believe it, until I see evidence to the contrary. You are
too suspicious--too uncharitable, my good friend. I am always
inclined to think the best of every one. Give the poor fellow
another chance for his life, say I."

"I hope it may all turn out right."

"I am sure it will," returned Mr. May. "Many and many a young man is
driven to ruin by having all confidence withdrawn from him, after
his first error. Depend upon it, such a course is not right."

"I perfectly agree with you, Mr. May, that we should not utterly
condemn and cast off a man for a single fault. But, it is one thing
to bear with a fault, and encourage a failing brother man to better
courses, and another to give an individual whom we know to be
dishonest, a certificate of good character."

"Yes, but I am not so sure the young man we are speaking about is
dishonest."

"Didn't he rob you?"

"Don't say rob. That is too hard a word. He did take a little from
me; but it wasn't much, and there were peculiar circumstances."

"Are you sure that under other peculiar circumstances, he would not
have taken much more from you?"

"I don't believe he would."

"I wouldn't trust him."

"You are too suspicious--too uncharitable, as I have already said. I
can't be so. I always try to think the best of every one."

Finding that it was no use to talk, the neighbor said but little
more on the subject.

About a year afterwards the young man's new employer, who, on the
faith of Mr. May's recommendation, had placed great confidence in
him, discovered that he had been robbed of several thousand dollars.
The robbery was clearly traced to this clerk, who was arrested,
tried, and sentenced to three years imprisonment in the
Penitentiary.

"It seems that all your charity was lost on that young scoundrel,
Blake," said the individual whose conversation with Mr. May has just
been given.

"Poor fellow!" was the pitying reply. "I am most grievously
disappointed in him. I never believed that he would turn out so
badly."

"You might have known it after he had swindled you. A man who will
steal a sheep, needs only to be assured of impunity, to rob the
mail. The principle is the same. A rogue is a rogue, whether it be
for a pin or a pound."

"Well, well--people differ in these matters. I never look at the
worst side only. How could Dayton find it in his heart to send that
poor fellow to the State Prison! I wouldn't have done it, if he had
taken all I possess. It was downright vindictiveness in him."

"It was simple justice. He could not have done otherwise. Blake had
not only wronged him, but he had violated the laws and to the laws
he was bound to give him up."

"Give up a poor, erring young man, to the stern, unbending,
unfeeling laws! No one is bound to do that. It is cruel, and no one
is under the necessity of being cruel."

"It is simply just, Mr. May, as I view it. And, further, really more
just to give up the culprit to the law he has knowingly and wilfully
violated, than to let him escape its penalties."

Mr. May shook his head.

"I certainly cannot see the charity of locking up a young man for
three or four years in prison, and utterly and forever disgracing
him."

"It is great evil to steal?" said the neighbor.

"O, certainly--a great sin."

"And the law made for its punishment is just?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Do you think that it really injuries a thief to lock him up in
prison, and prevent him from trespassing on the property of his
neighbors?"

"That I suppose depends upon circumstances. If----"

"No, but my friend, we must fix the principle yea or nay. The law
that punishes theft is a good law--you admit that--very well. If the
law is good. it must be because its effect is good. A thief, will,
under such law, he really more benefitted by feeling its force than
in escaping the penalty annexed to its infringement. No distinction
can or ought to be made. The man who, in, a sane mind, deliberately
takes the property of another, should be punished by the law which
forbids stealing. It will have at least one good effect, if none
others and that will be to make him less willing to run similar
risk, and thus leave to his neighbor the peaceable possession of his
goods."

"Punishment, if ever administered, should look to the good of the
offender. But, what good disgracing and imprisoning a young man who
has all along borne a fair character, is going to have, is more than
I can tell. Blake won't be able to hold up his head among
respectable people when his term has expired."

"And will, in consequence, lose his power of injuring the honest and
unsuspecting. He will be viewed in his own true light, and be cast
off as unworthy by a community whose confidence he has most
shamefully abused."

"And so you will give an erring brother no chance for his life?"

"O yes. Every chance. But it would not be kindness to wink at his
errors and leave him free to continue in the practice of them, to
his own and others' injury. Having forfeited his right to the
confidence of this community by trespassing upon it, let him pay the
penalty of that trespass. It will be to him, doubtless, a salutary
lesson. A few years of confinement in a prison will give him time
for reflection and repentance; whereas, impunity in an evil course
could only have strengthened his evil purposes. When he has paid the
just penalty of his crime, let him go into another part of the
country, and among strangers live a virtuous life, the sure reward
of which is peace."

Mr. May shook his head negatively, at these remarks.

"No one errs on the side of kindness," he said, "while too many, by
an opposite course, drive to ruin those whom leniency might have
saved."

A short time after the occurrence of this little interview, Mr. May,
on returning home one evening, found his wife in much apparent
trouble.

"Has anything gone wrong, Ella?" he asked.

"Would you have believed it?" was Mrs. May's quick and excited
answer. "I caught Jane in my drawer to-day, with a ten dollar bill
in her hand which she had just taken out of my pocket book, that was
still open."

"Why, Ella!"

"It is too true! I charged it at once upon her, and she burst into
tears, and owned that she was going to take the money and keep it."

"That accounts, then, for the frequency with which you have missed
small sums of money for several months past."

"Yes. That is all plain enough now. But what shall we do? I cannot
think of keeping Jane any longer."

"Perhaps she will never attempt such a thing again, now that she has
been discovered."

"I cannot trust her. I should never feel safe a moment. To have a
thief about the house! Oh, no, That would never answer. She will
have to go."

"Well, Ella, you will have to do what you think best; but you
mustn't be too hard on the poor creature. You mustn't think of
exposing her, and thus blasting her character. It might drive her to
ruin."

"But, is it right for me, knowing what she is, to let her go quietly
into another family? It is a serious matter, husband."

"I don't know that you have anything to do with that. The safest
thing, in my opinion, is for you to talk seriously to Jane, and warn
her of the consequences of acts such as she has been guilty of. And
then let her go, trusting that she will reform"

"But there is another fault that I have discovered within a week or
two past. A fault that I suspected, but was not sure about. It is a
very bad one."

"What is that, Ella?"

"I do not think she is kind to the baby."

"What?"

"I have good reason for believing that she is not kind to our dear
little babe. I partly suspected this for some time. More than once I
have came suddenly upon her, and found our sweet pet sobbing as if
his heart would break. The expression in Jane's face I could not
exactly understand. Light has gradually broken in upon me, and now I
am satisfied that she has abused him shamefully."

"Ella?"

"It is too true. Since my suspicions were fully aroused, I have
asked Hannah about it, and she, unwillingly, has confirmed my own
impressions."

"Unwillingly! It was her duty to have let you know this voluntarily.
Treat my little angel Charley unkindly! The wretch! She doesn't
remain in this house a day longer."

"So I have fully determined. I am afraid that Jane has a wretched
disposition. It is bad enough to steal, but to ill-treat a helpless,
innocent babe, is fiend-like."

Jane was accordingly dismissed.

"Poor creature!" said Mrs. May, after Jane had left the house; "I
feel sorry for her. She is, after all, the worst enemy to herself. I
don't know what will become of her."

"She'll get a place somewhere."

"Yes, I suppose so. But, I hope she won't refer to me for her
character. I don't know what I should say, if she did."

"If I couldn't say any good, I wouldn't say any harm, Ella. It's
rather a serious matter to break down the character of a poor girl."

"I know it is; for that is all they have to depend upon. I shall
have to smooth it over some how, I suppose."

"Yes: put the best face you can upon it. I have no doubt but she
will do better in another place."

On the next day, sure enough, a lady called to ask about the
character of Jane.

"How long has she been with you?" was one of the first questions
asked.

"About six months," replied Mrs. May.

"In the capacity of nurse, I think she told me?"

"Yes. She was my nurse."

"Was she faithful?"

This was a trying question. But it had to be answered promptly, and
it was so answered.

"Yes, I think I may call her quite a faithful nurse. She never
refused to carry my little boy out; and always kept him very clean."

"She kept him nice, did she? Well, that is a recommendation. And I
want somebody who will not be above taking my baby into the street.
But how is her temper?"

"A little warm sometimes. But then, you know, perfection is not to
be attained any where."

"No, that is very true. You think her a very good nurse?"

"Yes, quite equal to the general run."

"I thank you very kindly," said the lady rising. "I hope I shall
find, in Jane, a nurse to my liking."

"I certainly hope so," replied Mrs. May, as she attended her to the
door.

"What do you think?" said Mrs. May to her husband, when he returned
in the evening.--"That Jane had the assurance to send a lady here to
inquire about her character."

"She is a pretty cool piece of goods, I should say. But, I suppose
she trusted to your known kind feelings, not to expose her."

"No doubt that was the reason. But, I can tell her that I was
strongly tempted to speak out the plain truth. Indeed, I could
hardly contain myself when the lady told me that she wanted her to
nurse a little infant. I thought of dear Charley, and how she had
neglected and abused him--the wretched creature! But I restrained
myself, and gave her as good a character as I could."

"That was right. We should not let our indignant feelings govern us
in matters of this kind. We can never err on the side of kindness."

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